At dawn, the Ypres front lay eerily still. No life stirred along the vast expanse; birds, insects, ants—even the hardiest creatures like rats and cockroaches—were nowhere to be seen. Corpses littered the ground: human, animal, and plant alike. A strange odor filled the air, a mix of lingering gas and decaying bodies. The scene was apocalyptic, like the end of the world.

In a partially enclosed bunker at the German 79th Infantry Division's headquarters, Major General Jonas sat on an ammunition crate, calmly drinking his coffee and leafing through a French newspaper brought by a signal officer. He didn't really need to read it to know its contents; the world was already filled with condemnations of Germany's use of gas warfare:

"Gas warfare is inhumane and must be banned!" "This is a tragedy, pushing humanity's darkest impulses to their limits!" "Poison gas will destroy humanity itself. No one can control this demon, not even the Germans—they will suffer the consequences!"

Jonas smirked as he put down the newspaper and strolled across the bunker, cup in hand, peering through a narrow firing slit at the French line a kilometer away. "These fools," he thought. "Your army is failing, so of course you'd call poison gas the devil."

To him, gas was no different from machine guns or artillery shells; all of them led to the same end. Did they believe a bullet that tore through someone's skull, or an artillery shell that flung bodies skyward in pieces, or shrapnel that left someone to bleed out in agony—were any of those more humane?

Just then, Major Ralph returned with his reconnaissance unit. He ducked into the bunker, standing at attention before Jonas to give his report.

"General, we've confirmed there's no lingering gas ahead. The French 43rd Division is directly across from us, but they're showing no will to fight and seem ready to retreat at any moment."

Jonas raised an eyebrow. "But?"

"It's the 105th Infantry Regiment, General," Ralph replied. "They say the 105th has joined the 43rd Division, though we haven't pinpointed their exact position."

Jonas's eyes narrowed. "The 105th Infantry Regiment?" He turned sharply to Ralph. "Charles's unit? Are you saying Charles is directly across from us?"

"No, sir," Ralph replied. "It's his unit, but they say Charles himself didn't come. He's probably commanding from Paris."

Jonas nodded slowly, relieved. That made more sense. If Charles were here in person, he'd be at risk of becoming either a corpse or a prisoner the moment the gas was released.

After a moment's thought, Jonas turned to his aide. "Send a message to General Stephen. Request permission to attack the enemy line."

"Yes, sir." The aide relayed the order to the signal officer.

Jonas had been requesting permission to attack since yesterday. In his view, the French were vulnerable, their morale shattered by the unexpected gas attack. It was the perfect moment to advance, even if it meant risking exposure to residual gas. War inevitably brought danger and loss, but victories like these—ones achieved with minimal effort—were rare.

But each time, General Stephen's response had been the same:

"Take it easy, Jonas. There's no rush." "If we can win the first battle, we can win the next." "We need to learn from this new weapon and use it to secure ultimate victory."

In theory, Stephen's words made sense; as long as the enemy couldn't counter the gas, Germany could continue to win. But Jonas was wary of wasting this window of opportunity.

And now, the French had sent Charles's unit to the front. Could it be that Charles had already developed a countermeasure against the gas?

No, Jonas quickly dismissed the idea. If Charles had a solution, he would be here with his troops, not staying back in Paris.

Soon, the signal officer returned with General Stephen's response. "General, General Stephen has granted permission to proceed with the attack, though he recommends a conventional approach."

Jonas nodded in understanding. German forces hadn't yet amassed a significant gas stockpile, and they needed to conserve what they had.

Lifting his binoculars, Jonas observed movement along the enemy lines. It looked like the French were fortifying their trenches, with clouds of dust rising from the work. He checked his pocket watch, then gave his order.

"Prepare for an assault. We move in ten minutes!"

"Yes, sir!" his aide replied, quickly passing the order down the line.

German soldiers, standing ready in their trenches, made final preparations. Some loaded fresh bullets into their rifles, others lightened their packs by pouring out half of their water, and many stuffed extra grenades into their bags. Then, rifles in hand, they waited in silence, their breathing heavy, their bayonets gleaming in the early light.

Officers moved down the line, offering words of encouragement. "Stay steady, boys! The French are terrified of the gas. This'll be just like last time. Just get in there and take their trenches, and it's over!"

"Steady now!"

"Steady!"

Finally, the signal came.

A sharp whistle pierced the air, followed by a barrage of artillery shells that streaked overhead and smashed into the enemy lines. Shouting, the German soldiers climbed out of their trenches, charging across the muddy Ypres fields toward the French positions.

They desperately hoped their officers were right—that this battle would be as easy as the last, and that they'd face no resistance. But the reality was quite different. The French response was not only intense but highly accurate. Their bullets seemed to find their mark with uncanny precision, picking off officers, machine gunners, and medics alike.

The further the Germans advanced, the more their confidence wavered:

Without officers, they lost leadership. Without machine gunners, they had no covering fire. And without medics, each soldier was left to imagine a slow death in a shell crater, wounded and waiting, alone.

To the soldiers, it felt like they were simply running into a storm of bullets, facing death head-on.

Watching through his binoculars, Jonas felt the mounting tension. The enemy had no extra machine guns or heavy artillery, yet they held the Germans at bay. There was an invisible force bearing down on Jonas and his men, instilling a deep, unshakable dread.

Was this the power of Charles's army?

Jonas frowned, deeply unsettled. What was Charles planning with a force like this? And why had he sent such an elite unit to the front to face gas warfare?

Thank you for the support, friends. If you want to read more chapters in advance, go to my Patreon.

Read 20 Chapters In Advance: patreon.com/Franklin1